


The Door's Open, But The Ride Ain't Free

by mrs_d



Series: MCU Kink Bingo [8]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst, Consent Issues, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Multiple, Pining, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Sex Work, Sex Worker Steve Rogers, massage parlor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-07
Updated: 2019-09-07
Packaged: 2020-10-11 18:56:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20551082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrs_d/pseuds/mrs_d
Summary: Steve knows better than to fall for a client. Sam knows better than to think he can ever have more than what he's paying for. And yet here they are.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I chose not to warn, and I tried to tag this as thoroughly as possible, but let me know if I missed something. There's a more detailed summary (with spoilers) in the end notes if you want to be more prepared. 
> 
> Title from [Thunder Road](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JGBXnw86Mgc). Originally written for MCU Kink Bingo, for the "Massage" square on my card.

Steve likes Thomas.

Thomas probably isn’t his real name, just like Grant isn’t Steve’s. But Steve likes him.

The first time Thomas came here, he went back with Ginger (real name Natasha), but he caught Steve’s eye on the way by, and Steve knew. He’s noticed that that’s common for butch men like Thomas; no matter what they prefer, they tend to see a woman the first time. It takes them a couple of tries to figure it out, but eventually they catch on: sex is sex, and when you’re paying for it, you may as well get what you want.

Steve’s been seeing Thomas two or three times a month now for almost a year. At their first session, Steve learned that Thomas is a vet — and not the kind that handles furry little creatures. Thomas didn’t tell him that; he didn’t have to. A military brat himself, Steve can recognize the type a mile away. Plus, Thomas has got scars — a lot of them — and chronic pain. That first day, Steve asked Thomas what unit he’d been with, and Thomas didn’t answer. So Steve told him about how his dad didn’t come home from Desert Storm.

Since then, Thomas hasn’t met with anyone else. And Steve really likes him.

* * *

Thomas greets him this evening with his usual smile. It’s like catnip for Steve; something warms in his chest, and he can’t wait to get started.

As Steve leads him back to his room, they fall into casual conversation, like they always do. Of all his clients, Thomas is the easiest one to talk to, and the only one that Steve feels like he can be himself around. Thomas updates him on the latest adventures of his dog — who’s named Redwing for some weird reason — then he asks if Steve has seen the trailer for the newest  _ Star Wars _ movie. Steve has, and he geeks out about it in a way that’s neither professional nor sexy, but Thomas doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, he’s got that dreamy look on his face that he sometimes gets when Steve talks to him. The dreamy look that Steve’s sure is on his own face from time to time.

Steve’s been in the business long enough to know that that’s a dangerous look, no matter which of them is wearing it. It’s a look that blurs lines, and it’s hard to navigate those murky waters. He knows from experience — Brock — that he needs to say something, and soon, before it gets out of hand. Still, he can’t help talking to Thomas like they’re friends.

They’re not friends. Steve knows about Thomas’s dog, and that Thomas’s sister is the only know who knows he’s gay, and that Thomas hates  _ Game of Thrones _ with a fiery passion that rivals Steve’s own. He knows Thomas’s body. He knows where Thomas hurts, and he knows at least three different ways to make Thomas feel good with just his hands. He knows what Thomas’s face looks like when he comes. But they’re not friends. And they’re not more than that, either.

Not that Steve wouldn’t want to be, if he and Thomas had met in different circumstances. Thomas is beautiful, with a great body and gorgeous eyes, plus a sweet little gap between his front teeth that Steve only gets to see when Thomas grins. Steve wishes he could make him laugh more — he wishes he could take Thomas out and see him under the bright sun instead of the dim lamplight of the massage parlor, but that’s not the kind of relationship they have. It’s strictly professional, even if Steve’s thoughts get unprofessional once in a while. 

Like when Thomas starts unbuttoning his plaid shirt before Steve even leaves the room.

Steve excuses himself in a hurry — Thomas isn’t paying him to be a voyeur. Steve loiters in the front room for a few minutes while other clients, led by other masseuses, pass by. Steve watches them go, and tries to think professional thoughts. After five minutes, he’s ready.

Thomas is face down on the table when Steve steps back inside. As always, he’s draped the white sheet over his bare ass. Some of Steve’s clients aren’t like that; some of them are already touching themselves when he walks in, like the massage is a completely false premise. That’s fine — they’re paying him, they can do what they want, within reason — but Steve likes it better this way. After all, it’s not called a rub-and-tug for nothing. Steve likes the touch, the intimacy, the slow build. And Thomas does, too.

“On your left,” he murmurs, because he knows by now that Thomas startles kind of easily.

Thomas nods with a rustle of fabric, barely audible over the white noise that pipes from the small speakers that Steve has on the shelf beside the bottles of massage oil. He’s glad that Thomas also likes the background noise; sometimes without it, Steve gets stuck in his head, or fixated on the muffled sounds of pleasure that come from Nat’s room beside him.

“Hurting anywhere today?” Steve asks professionally, squirting some oil into his palm.

Thomas huffs a laugh into the headrest. “How about everywhere?”

Steve makes a sympathetic noise in his throat. There isn’t anything he can do for Thomas, medically speaking, but he does have good hands. They’re small, but they’re strong, and he knows how to use them.

“Fair enough,” he replies, as he rubs his hands together and warms the oil. “Guess what I should have asked is if there’s anywhere you don’t want me to touch?”

“No,” says Thomas at once. “No, it— you always make it better.”

Steve smiles. Even though he knows that this is what Thomas is paying him for, it’s still nice to hear. 

He starts, as he often does, by spreading the oil over Thomas’s back, making his skin shine. He slides his hands up on either side of Thomas’s spine with light pressure, then rounds the tops of Thomas’s shoulders and back down to his lower back. Thomas starts breathing deeply, as he usually does — he’s relaxing, and it’s a gratifying sight. Steve gets the impression that Thomas carries a lot, and not just in the physical sense; it’s a genuine pleasure to watch him put down some of his burden.

After a little while, Steve moves up to Thomas’s shoulders and applies a little more pressure. Thomas flinches when Steve’s fingers squeeze the rock-hard tendon at the base of his neck; Steve gentles his grip.

“Bad?” he asks.

“Bad,” Thomas agrees, “but don’t stop.”

“Okay,” Steve says, because Thomas can’t see him nod to acknowledge the instruction.

He kneads the muscle on either side of Thomas’s neck, working it with his fingers and thumbs. After a minute’s careful probing, he finds a knot on the right side. He focuses his attention on that, working the muscle in circular motions using his palm, his knuckles, and his fingertips in turn. He intersperses the massage with lighter touches, to ease the hurt that he knows Thomas must be feeling. This is supposed to be pleasurable, after all, though they have to get through the painful parts first.

A quarter of an hour passes with nothing but the hiss of white noise and the slick of oily skin between them. Eventually, the knot in Thomas’s shoulder loosens a bit, and when it does, he sags in relief.

“How do you do that, Grant?” Thomas asks in a low voice that lights a spark of arousal in Steve’s gut.

Steve smothers the feeling and answers, “I’m a superhero.”

He’s inordinately pleased when Thomas laughs — a little louder, a little freer than before. “I’d believe it,” Thomas tells him.

Steve reaches for more oil. Once it’s warm in his palms, he puts his hands on Thomas’s body again, lower this time. Thomas shifts minutely when his fingers skirt the edge of the sheet, but Steve’s not going there yet. He knows Thomas likes a tease, and he’s paid for ninety minutes, so Steve can take his time.

Thomas’s lower back is also tight, but he doesn’t flinch, so Steve works the muscle there a little harder, trusting Thomas to tell him when he goes too far. He finds the pressure points and holds them for the space of two of Thomas’s breaths. Then he eases off, running his hands slowly up and down Thomas’s back, as much for his own enjoyment as Thomas’s, until the oil is almost gone.

Finally, he pulls the sheet away, revealing Thomas’s perfectly round ass. He makes Thomas wait while he gets more oil — the kind that has a spicy scent that’s almost like cinnamon. It’s Thomas’s favorite, and Steve was out of it the last time he was here. As the fragrance permeates the room, Thomas makes a small noise of satisfaction that goes right to Steve’s dick.

_ Not gonna happen, _ he reminds it, for all the difference that makes. 

Steve’s used to getting worked up by touching Thomas; once in a while, it happens with other clients, too. Massage is just an intimate experience, and when you’re kind of attracted to the person, well. Steve’s come out of more than one of their sessions with a hard-on bad enough that he has to lock the door after Thomas leaves and deal with it before he can see anyone else.

Sometimes his clients want him to get off with them, but Thomas has never touched him. Not even innocuously. Which is good — Thomas is respecting his professional boundaries, for all that he might smile sweetly at Steve when they’re talking.

_ Maybe it’s all in my head, _ Steve thinks, laying his hands on Thomas again. Maybe he’s projecting, putting his crush on Thomas when there’s been no real evidence to support that.

“That’s nice,” Thomas murmurs, when Steve’s hands drift down to the curve of his ass.

Steve smirks and gives him a squeeze, watching how Thomas reacts — a frisson of tension moves through him, where a second ago he could have been sleeping.

“That’s really nice,” Thomas says.

Steve chuckles low in his throat and keeps working Thomas’s ass, one hand on each cheek. This is the only time in his life where he wishes his hands were bigger. He flattens his grip, pressing the heels of his hands into the tops of Thomas’s thighs. The muscle is tight here — stress — so Steve works it the way he was working Thomas’s back, only harder because he learned pretty early on that nothing is too hard for Thomas where his ass is concerned.

As his generous glutes start to relax, Thomas starts lifting his hips, almost like a cat pressing its head into its owner’s hand when it wants attention. This is miles from something so innocent, though; Steve can see that Thomas’s cock is stiffening up, and he’s got to be getting uncomfortable.

Still, Steve makes him wait a little longer. He savors the firm feel of Thomas’s ass in his hands, and not for the first time, he thinks about fucking him. Maybe with his fingers. Maybe his mouth. Maybe his cock. He spends a few seconds imagining what that would feel like, how hot and tight Thomas would be around him. His dick hardens immediately.

_ Way unprofessional, Rogers, _ he tells himself. He shakes his head and tries to focus, because this isn’t what Thomas is paying him for.

He rounds the edges of Thomas’s thighs and gets his hands underneath them. “Up?” he says quietly.

In an instant, like Steve’s given him an order, Thomas immediately bends his knees and elbows, lifting himself to all fours. It’s a rush, like it always is, to see him follow instructions and move where Steve tells him without question. Steve has a fleeting thought that maybe he’s in the wrong branch of this business; people pay good money to get bossed around. He could make a fortune.

But then he wouldn’t have Thomas, perfect and still on the table before him. Steve eyes his cock, now nearly fully erect, its tip defying gravity and curling up towards Thomas’s flat stomach. It’s as beautiful as the rest of him — long and thick, uncut and quivering slightly, probably with the beat of Thomas’s heart.

Steve’s own dick, not quelled despite his efforts, throbs in sympathy.  _ Later, _ he tells it.

Steve leaves Thomas hanging for the moment and heads to the shelf. He wipes the cinnamon oil off his hands with a towel and grabs a small bottle of lube. When Steve turns back around, he notices that Thomas’s eyes are almost level with his crotch. They’re open, too — he’s looking.

It only lasts a second, and Steve’s half-convinced he’s imagining it, but Thomas looks like he likes what he’s seeing.

Then Thomas’s eyes drop guiltily, and Steve gets back to work.

He keeps one hand on Thomas’s ass, squeezing and kneading, while his other hand, slick with lube, reaches around to Thomas’s cock. Thomas exhales a somewhat shaky breath as Steve’s hand closes around it. Steve keeps his pace unhurried; they still have time.

But Thomas is shifting like he’s impatient— or uncomfortable. “Can I turn over?” he asks after a moment.

“Of course,” Steve says immediately. He lifts the sheet so Thomas doesn’t get tangled in it. “This not working for you?” he asks while Thomas gets settled.

“No,” says Thomas.

Steve can’t tell if he means  _ No, that wasn’t working, _ or  _ No, that wasn’t it. _ Ultimately, it doesn’t matter, he supposes, and this way he gets to see Thomas’s face. No downside, really.

He nudges Thomas’s legs apart somewhat and runs one hand up the hard line of Thomas’s quad. The other goes back to his dick— or it would have, if Thomas didn’t put his hand on Steve’s wrist and stop him.

“Grant,” Thomas says, but he doesn’t seem to have a follow-up.

“What’s wrong?” Steve asks, moving away. “Do you want to stop?”

Thomas shakes his head. “No, I want—” His eyes slip down again, to where Steve’s loose-fitting pants aren’t hiding anything.

“What is it?” Steve asks, a little apprehensively.

Thomas swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Can I touch you, too?” he asks in a rush.

It’s a struggle not to react. Steve keeps his face impassive, and manages only to shift his hips a little.

“I’ll pay extra,” Thomas adds.

Steve feels himself blush, which doesn’t happen too often in his line of work. He shifts his hips again. The faint friction of his clothing makes him tingle. He makes a decision.

“Sure, you can touch me,” he says. “And don’t worry about the money.”

Thomas frowns — not the reaction Steve was expecting. “You sure?”

Steve frowns, too, second-guessing himself. Maybe he should insist on the payment. It’s what he would do if another client sprung this on him. Would it be weird not to? But then again, Thomas is paying Steve to make him happy, and if this is what he wants....

God knows it’s what Steve wants.

“First time’s always free,” Steve lies.

Thomas’s worried expression clears somewhat. “Okay.”

He sits up, which surprises Steve into stepping back. Thomas swings his legs off the side of the table and opens his knees. Then he sends Steve a look, and Steve sees what he wants.

_ Last chance to back out, _ Steve thinks, even as he slots himself between Thomas’s bare legs.

“This okay?” Thomas asks, reaching for Steve’s hips.

“Yeah,” says Steve.

His voice comes out surprisingly husky. Thomas’s hands are on his waist — warm and dry and calloused against his skin. One sneaks up Steve’s lower back, and his fingers stroke the line of his spine. Steve moves closer without meaning to.

“Can I kiss you?” Thomas asks lowly.

_ I don’t kiss clients, _ Steve should say, because that’s the truth. He hasn’t kissed anyone since he saw Peggy off at the airport three years ago. He hasn’t wanted to.

“Yeah,” Steve says instead, because suddenly he does. It’s all he wants, actually.

And then Thomas’s mouth is on his, sweet and hesitating like he’s still not sure. His tongue brushes against the seam of Steve’s lips, and Steve feels something inside him start to thaw, the last of his defenses melting down.

He wants this so badly. He throws caution to the winds. He opens his mouth, and he kisses Thomas back.

Thomas tastes like cinnamon gum, like the scent that’s still lingering in the air. The double dose of spice sends Steve reeling, has him closing his eyes. One of Thomas’s hands pushes through Steve’s hair, fingertips lightly scraping his scalp, sending shivers racing down his spine.

He’s practically pressed against Thomas’s chest now, and Thomas’s hands are sliding his pants down, an inch at a time. All Steve can do is let him; all Steve’s control has evaporated. He doesn’t remember who’s paying whom as Thomas starts to tug at his cock. His hand is slippery — Steve left the lube beside him on the table, back when they were still client and service provider.

Feels like that was a lifetime ago.

Steve hears himself make a sound —  _ a moan, _ he corrects himself instantly, he’s heard enough of them over the years to recognize one. Thomas breaks off the kiss, he readjusts, and Steve’s eyes flutter closed again because that hot wet skin beside him is Thomas’s dick, rutting alongside his, held tight in Thomas’s large, very capable hand. From a distance, Steve wonders if Thomas has ever done massage, and he breathes out something like a laugh.

“Grant?” Thomas whispers.

The fake name grates at Steve, but he’s too far gone to say anything about it — and it doesn’t matter, anyway. Because Thomas starts kissing him again a second later, deep and messy. Steve lets go, surrenders to Thomas’s lips, his touch. He’s flying, or maybe he’s falling, but Thomas is there to catch him, to ground him.

The feeling, long denied, peaks all at once. Steve twists his head to the side as he comes, gasping like he’s run a marathon in the last ten minutes. As he comes down, Thomas lays soft kisses along Steve’s neck. His mouth toys at Steve’s earlobe, his breath like steam on Steve’s skin.

While Steve’s head slowly clears, his cock twitches with overstimulation. He extracts himself from Thomas’s grasp and sneaks a hand in between them. Thomas’s face contorts in that familiar, beautiful way when Steve touches him, and a minute later he’s coming into Steve’s palm, the same as ever.

Except it’s not the same, because Steve wants to kiss him, and now he knows it. He wants to take Thomas home and watch him sleep. Wants to wake up wrapped in his arms. Wants Thomas’s scent on his bed, his body.

It’s not the same. It never will be again. 

And Steve was worried about  _ Thomas _ crossing boundaries.

He clears his throat and steps back, reaches for a clean towel. He wipes his hand, his dick. Then he turns, about to do the same for Thomas, the way he usually does at the end of their sessions.

Thomas takes the towel out of his hands, though, before Steve can touch him with it. “Thanks,” he mutters, not meeting Steve’s eye.

_ That’s fine, _ Steve tells himself, taking advantage of Thomas’s distraction to put his clothes to rights and try to regain some semblance of his professional dignity. He coughs again, and moves towards the door.

“I’ll let you get dressed,” he says, the way he always does.

Thomas doesn’t stop him from leaving. He doesn’t say a word, but his eyes watch him every second until he’s out the door.

Steve keeps it together in the hall. He keeps it together when he walks into the kitchen and sees Natasha making coffee. He keeps it together until he’s in the small bathroom off the kitchen. He keeps it together until he closes the door behind him, and then he can’t keep it together any longer.

His eyes are burning. There’s a lump the size of Manhattan in his throat. Something cold squeezes his heart, and its dark liquid seeps out, spreading a little further every second.

_ God, _ he thinks, or maybe he’s praying. What was he thinking? How did he let it get this bad? Steve’s not some starry-eyed newbie fresh into this job. He knows better than to fall for a client, and he knows better than to keep seeing a client when he thinks maybe that client is falling for him. He  _ knows _ this, and yet—

And yet, he likes Thomas.

He sobs. Just once, dry. He’s got to end this. It’s gone on far too long.

He draws in a deep breath, looks to the ceiling and swallows it all back down again. He can do this. He has to.

What choice does he have?


	2. Chapter 2

Sam likes Grant.

He likes Grant more than he ever would’ve thought possible back when he wandered into this place a year ago. He’d been desperate, alone, and so torn up he couldn’t see straight. It was his sister who suggested it — in an oblique way. What she’d actually said was that Sam needed a girlfriend, and that was the moment that Sam came out to her. Told her about Riley, and Jordan in high school, and his childhood crush on Lando Calrissian. Sarah hadn’t reacted negatively — she hadn’t really reacted at all — and later that night, Sam stepped through the massage parlor doors for the first time and paid Ginger. It was a last-ditch effort to prove what he already knew. Because, as beautiful and kind as Ginger was, Sam couldn’t stop thinking about that skinny blonde masseuse whose eyes had followed him out of the room, and that was the only thing that got him off.

Fast-forward a year, and Sam still can’t stop thinking about him.

He knows it’s not healthy. He knows that Grant’s just one more unavailable guy in a long string of unavailable guys that Sam’s fallen for. At least Grant’s into men — unlike James, Malik, or Ari — and at least Steve wants to touch him — unlike Riley, who was so closeted that he couldn’t even open his eyes when they had sex. But aside from that, there’s nothing going for him and Grant.

Sam scoffs. _ Him and Grant. _ That makes it sound like they’re a couple — or at least, something more than what they are, which is a paying customer and a sex worker. And tonight....

It felt so good — so right — to touch Grant, to be so intimate together, to reciprocate and make Grant come for once. He was beautiful, wrapped up in his pleasure, so beautiful. Sam would be glad to see that every day, to be close to him always, but….

_ Stupid, _ he tells himself, even as the memory of what just happened fills his chest up like a balloon. He quashes the happy sensation as he grabs his pants. He shouldn’t have said anything, shouldn’t have asked. Grant couldn’t really have said no, given the circumstances, so it was creepy — _ he _ was creepy, because he’d just backed Grant into having sex with him.

Disgusted with himself, Sam zips up his pants. His traitorous dick twitches as his hands move near it, and Sam feels bile rise in the back of his throat. He finds his undershirt and pulls it on as quick as he can. If he hurries, he can get out of here before Grant comes back.

He’s halfway through buttoning up his shirt when the door opens. He turns away to hide his grimace, then manages a forced half-smile when he looks at Grant.

Grant’s doing the same. His square jaw is set. His eyes are distant, containing nothing of the raw want and open need that Sam had seen when he asked if he could kiss him. For a moment there, it had almost seemed— but no. Sam’s feelings are his own, and Grant was just doing his job. Sam crossed a line, and now he has to own up to it. 

“Grant,” he begins, at the same time that Grant says, “Thomas.”

They both break off, Grant with a slight chuckle. “Go ahead,” he says.

“Okay,” says Sam. He swallows hard. “I don’t think I should see you here anymore.”

Grant doesn’t look surprised. A slight twist to his mouth, a shift in his jaw — that’s it for his reaction, and it’s unreadable.

“Okay,” he says after waiting a moment, like he thought Sam was going to say more.

Sam thought he was going to say more. God knows there’s more to say. But his fingers go back to buttoning his shirt, and after another beat, Grant nods.

“Okay,” he says again.

“If you want, I can still pay you extra,” Sam adds awkwardly, as he pulls on his right shoe. “For— you know...”

“No,” Grant says immediately. “That’s not necessary.”

“Are you sure?” Sam asks, and instantly regrets it: why is he drawing this out? He should just go. Now.

But Grant’s gaze softens slightly, and he almost smiles. “Positive,” he answers.

Sam almost smiles back, and for a few seconds, there’s something in the air between them. He knows it, he can _ feel _ it, it’s— 

It’s back to business. Grant steps to the side of the door, clearing a path. Sam’s not finished tying his shoe laces, but he straightens up anyway, and crosses the small room in a few strides. He hesitates at the last second, turning to Grant.

“I, uh,” he says. His face is burning with shame, but he has to say something, he can’t just leave it like this. “I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for,” Grant replies lightly. “That’s just the way it goes sometimes.”

The words are like a slap. Sam’s eyes water with the sting, and irrational anger bubbles up. _ Just the way it goes? _ he wants to shout. _ Just the way it— _

“Right,” he says out loud. He can do this. He can be professional, he can walk away. “Okay. Goodbye, Grant.”

“Bye, Thomas,” says Grant, with an infuriatingly polite smile.

After that, there’s nothing more that needs to be said. Sam leaves.

* * *

When the fog lifts, Sam finds himself at an all-night Starbucks. It’s late; two hours have passed since the disaster with Grant, most of which have been a blur. He wandered the streets, bought a hot dog from a street vendor, and sat in a park for a while, but where he went, exactly, and how he came to be in front of this barista with no idea what to order, Sam doesn’t know.

He steps aside. He shouldn’t order anything. He should go home and get some sleep, get his head on straight before he can exist in this world like a normal human person.

He hasn’t dissociated this bad for a while. Not since he first got back from the Middle East, when his city looked like an alien planet, and the people who claimed to know him seemed to live on the other side of a thin but impermeable film. To this day, he’s still not sure how he got through it. His mother and sister dragging him to church every Sunday, and Riley’s brother going with him to a grief counselling group at the VA — these things helped, but Sam didn’t really feel alive again until the first time Grant touched him.

Touch starvation is a real thing; he knows that from the psych degree that he’s currently doing nothing with. So he can see, logically, what happened to lead him to this place: Grant’s touch felt so good that he attached emotional relevance to it. Add to that, Grant was nice to him. Nice, and non-judgmental. Never looked at him funny for being a queer vet, never shamed him for not being out, never hurt him in any way.

He smiles at the thought of his and Grant’s banter, the way they parry back and forth like conversation is a dance they’ve been doing for years. It’s easy with Grant, it’s always easy. And in Sam’s life, things have rarely been easy, and touch is hard to come by. It makes sense that he’d fall for someone like that.

The only problem, of course, is that Sam’s paying him.

_ Ay, there’s the rub, _ Sam thinks. It’s the only part of _ Hamlet _ he remembers. It’s also a line that made Grant laugh — free and beautiful, his blue eyes bright with joy — a few sessions ago.

God. Sam’s eyes are watering, his throat is thick. He shoves himself into action, leaving the Starbucks before something really embarrassing happens.

But no matter where he goes, he thinks of Grant. He passes an ice cream shop, its pastel tones muted by the black midnight. Grant loves ice cream, but it makes him sick, so he settles for sorbet. Lemon raspberry is his favorite. 

A block later, Sam sees a comic book shop, faded superhero posters in the windows. A lifelong nerd, Grant had dreams of being an illustrator, before life set him on a different path. 

Sam wanders further, comes across a funeral home, regal and imposing. Like Sam, Grant lost his dad when he was young. His mom, too, though Sam doesn’t know when that happened. Grant doesn’t talk about it.

Sam turns down an alley blindly, and then another one, and then he’s back in the red light district. Across the street, women in platforms and fishnets approach the cars that slow down, flirt with the drivers that flag them over. Sam’s now only a block from the massage parlor where this whole thing started. From here, he can see the OPEN sign is still lit. The papered-over windows glow with the light inside. His feet start to move towards it without his permission. 

As he approaches, the door opens, and a sallow woman with dark hair and a big grey scarf steps out. Sam wonders if tonight was her first time, or if she’s a regular like him. They lock eyes as she draws near; Sam sees her shoulders tighten, her knuckles turn white as she pulls the scarf tighter around her neck.

_ Don’t worry, _ Sam wants to tell her. _ I’m just like you. _

But he’s not. He’s a creep who hangs out near a brothel in the middle of the night because he’s in love with a prostitute.

Grant’s probably with another client right now. Sam wonders who they are, what they’re doing. If Grant’s kissing them the way he kissed Sam, like they could drown in each other.

The taste of Grant’s mouth comes back to him. He feels the warmth of Grant’s slim body pressed up against his; he closes his hand and swears Grant’s cock is throbbing in his grip again. He hears Grant’s voice break in a small moan; he feels him tense and release in his arms, lean on him for support.

They’d never done anything like that before tonight, but maybe Grant does that with everyone. Maybe that's normal. Part of his professional routine. Another day on the job.

_ I’m in love with a prostitute, _ Sam thinks again, miserably.

As if in reply, he hears an echo of his father’s voice, booming from the pulpit: _ There’s a difference between love and fornication _. 

He doesn’t have to wonder what Paul Wilson would think if he could see Sam now. Discharged and adrift. Gay, using Paul’s father’s name to fornicate and call it love. He’s a disgrace, he’s worse than nothing, he’s—

“Thomas?” a woman’s voice says, startling him. Sam turns to find a familiar redhead behind him. “It is Thomas, isn’t it?” she asks uncertainly.

“Yeah,” Sam says quickly. “Yeah, sorry. Hi, Ginger.”

“Hi,” Ginger echoes with a smile. “What are you doing back here? Did you forget something?”

Her tone is light, but her eyes are shrewd. Sam is reminded of their night together; he could tell she knew he wasn’t attracted to her, but she was kind about it. Now, however, she’s eyeing him like he might be a threat— and rightfully so. Sam decides to come clean.

“Yeah,” he sighs. “Yeah, I forgot to tell Grant how I feel about him.”

Ginger cocks her head. One lock of her bright red hair — is it a wig? — brushes her chin. She considers him in silence for a minute. Sam feels like he’s being x-rayed, like she’s seeing everything inside him.

“Come with me,” she says abruptly.

She brushes past him, her heels clicking in the direction of the massage parlor. Sam follows, because what the hell else is he supposed to do?

She leads him through the lobby, and into the dim-lit hallway. Sam’s mouth goes dry as they pass Grant’s door, closed with a _ Do Not Disturb _ sign hanging on the knob. Thankfully, Sam doesn’t hear a sound.

Ginger opens the next room with a key attached to the inside of her purse, and gestures for Sam to go in ahead of her. Her room isn’t much different than Grant’s, but the lamp light is brighter, and she has a wider array of supplies on the shelf.

“We can talk in here,” she says, pointing to a chair.

Sam sits, more than a little apprehensive. Ginger hops up on the massage table and kicks off her heels. They clatter to the floor, but she doesn’t seem concerned, instead pulling her feet up until she’s seated cross-legged. If Sam were a straight man, he would have noticed that her leggings leave nothing to the imagination, but as it is, all he can see is her toned thighs and arms. He wonders if she was in the service, too.

“So,” she says after a second. “Talk.”

“Uh,” says Sam, caught off guard. “I don’t— I don’t know what to say.”

“Hm,” Ginger says. “I guess that’s the problem.”

“Right,” Sam agrees.

They sit in silence for another minute. Sam chews his bottom lip as his thoughts chase each other around his brain. Ginger seems unbothered; his suspicion that she has military training grows.

Finally, he asks, “Have you ever had a client fall in love with you?”

A subdued look of surprise flits across Ginger’s face. “Love?”

Sam shrugs, embarrassed but unashamed.

“Many times,” Ginger answers his question.

“And what do you do about it?”

“Depends on the client,” Ginger replies. “If he seems like the type to lose his shit when he gets rejected, we boot him. No exceptions.” She blinks down at him and tilts her head again. “Are you the type to lose your shit, Sam?”

“No,” Sam hurries to say, “not at all, I wouldn’t—”

It suddenly registers that Ginger used his real name. He stares. She gives him a small smile.

“I set up your account, remember? I saw your ID in your wallet,” she explains. “Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.”

Of that Sam has no doubt. Discretion has to be this woman’s middle name. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Ginger replies pleasantly. “Look,” she goes on after a pause. “When you’re in a job like this, love is… complicated.”

Sam nods. He would have expected nothing less.

“And dating clients is a big no-no,” Ginger adds. “If you’re paying someone, you’re not in a romantic relationship, and you can’t be.”

Sam’s heart sinks. He knows this — he’s always known this. It’s why he felt like such a creep tonight. It’s why he walked away.

“But it happens,” Ginger says. Sam chances a look up; her face is kind again, almost pitying, the way it was the first time he came here, when they both knew he wasn’t going to get what he wanted. “It happens more often than anybody would care to admit. And it’s messy every single time.”

“So what do you do?” Sam asks again.

“Walk away,” Ginger advises, blunt but not rude.

“I did,” Sam feels compelled to explain. “I tried.”

“Try harder.” Ginger unfolds her long legs and slides off the table. In her bare feet, her head’s no higher than it was before. She looks down at Sam and sighs. “I’m sorry,” she says. “That’s just the way it goes sometimes.”

The phrase doesn’t trigger the same anger this time. Sam can see what Grant meant then — he can see what Ginger means now — and they’re both right. This is the way it goes sometimes, and now Sam needs to get gone.

He rises to his feet, offers his hand to Ginger. With a small smile, she shakes it. Her grasp is firm and silky; Sam’s reminded of what she does for a living.

“Thank you,” Sam tells her. “I really appreciate this, Ginger.”

“My name is Natasha,” she says softly. “And you’re welcome. You still have my card?”

“Yeah,” Sam replies, because for some reason he’s kept it in his wallet all this time.

“Call me sometime,” she says. “Let me know how you’re doing.”

“Okay,” says Sam. Natasha smiles at him — a real smile, not intended to flirt or boost his ego. It’s pretty, and disarmingly innocent. Sam wants to see more of it.

Walking away, he thinks about her offer. On the surface, it seems strange. It’s not like they’re friends — though maybe they could be. He decides he’d like that.

Only when he’s back outside does he realize that he didn’t even look at Grant’s room on the way by.

**Author's Note:**

> I selected "Chose Not To Warn" because this story involves a relationship between a sex worker and a client. Here's a breakdown of what happens, if you want to be prepared:
> 
> Sam has been using Steve's services for a year, and both of them have developed romantic feelings for each other, though neither of them know that it's mutual. On this night in particular, Sam acts on his feelings, and asks if he can touch Steve sexually. This is where the consent issues come in, because Steve agrees, though technically Sam is still paying him, so can he truthfully consent? 
> 
> The rest of the story deals with the fall-out from this action. Steve knows that he shouldn't have agreed to it, and Sam knows that he crossed a line in asking. They independently decide to stop seeing each other, and Sam spends the rest of the story being miserable about it -- hence the angst tag. 
> 
> You can find me on Dreamwidth (mrs_d), Twitter (mrs_dawnaway), or the Sam Wilson Discord channel (mrs_d) if you'd like to discuss this further.


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